Well, I think I can state with certainty, today anyway, that it has helped me to face my reality by journaling about my aging anxiety. I think by putting it out there I am sort of shifting a bit with where it sits in my mind. The panic isn’t quite as omnipresent. Mind you, my Facebook page still doesn’t post the year I was born. I’m not that settled with it yet.
I also realize I’m not the first aging woman to panic over turning fifty. Nor will I be the last. “Get a grip,” “get over it,” “it’s better than the alternative,” yadda, yadda, yadda. The thing is, for my entire life people were misdiagnosing my age ... and by a long shot! That carnival guy always got beat bad! I was a college freshman and they thought I was a prepubescent eighth grader. Not good! I was a bride and they thought I was shopping for a prom gown. I was a mother and they thought it was my nanny post. That’s all well and good in general. It’s difficult to be taken seriously or given any modicum of responsibility by others when they think you are fifteen years younger than you really are. I have lived my life, I have been through the ringer at times, and I can give good advice. I guess maybe the gap is closing and people are willing to stop, take a longer look, gauge the depth of the wrinkles and think, hum, maybe she does have something to say!
I don’t know, I realize that I’ve crested the hill of the roller coaster of life, a cliché, but a truth. In fact, I’m well beyond the technicality of “middle aged.” It doesn’t really matter to me quite as much what other people think of me, how old I am, and what I’ve lived through. Well, it does, but only in the sense that when I do decide to open my mouth that they listen and give me the same respect as they would someone else who’s descending on the mid-century mark and who might deliver their worldly decrees with a more booming presence.
I could stop the struggling and let my hair go gray. I read that book and decided it’s not my time. If I can actually fake someone out a little longer, it is kind of fun. What’s on the outside doesn’t really jive with how I feel on the inside. Never really did, and there isn’t a great deal that I can do about that. Placing blame on my folks doesn’t fix it either. Actually, both of my parents look younger than their ages, also. One conversation I’ve never had with either of them was how that made them feel as they traveled life’s’ journey. That’s a good question to pose sometime later.
I’m finding that even still, I am shifting each day in my thoughts about the inevitable. Hum, a big party ... don’t need that. A quiet passage with those I care about sounds more like it. I do think I need to mark the occasion with dignity. Respecting where I’ve been and where I’m going in the next fifty. If my robust ancestral lineage allows me to hang in there with the likes of my grandmother, great grandmother, and a couple great aunts, I could easily see one hundred. Now that’s going to require some serious personal analysis.
My kids are really good at my denial reinforcement needs. “Mom, you are NOT old ... really, Mom!” “Mom, you look like a twenty-five-year-old!” Well, we all know that I don’t, but you can keep telling me that and I’ll keep throwing you peanuts or hundreds or whatever it takes to keep it comin’! Let me strap on my brain bucket and bring it on! Just give me the tools, please Lord, to cushion the blow!
